Make Ahead

This Old World mustard recipe is an authentic replica of the sweet-style mustard that is served at any Biergarten in Bavaria. Prepare it at least a few days, and preferably a week, before you plan to dip your pretzels.

Customize this recipe by subbing in other nuts and seeds.

These old-fashioned marshmallows look beautiful in apothecary jars. Find one at a flea market, Williams-Sonoma, or on etsy.com.

If you like, serve this with whipped cream or an extra dollop of yogurt.

To prevent the pasta from getting too soft, we cook it separately and toss it with olive oil and chopped parsley, then spoon it into each bowl of soup.

Mix this New Orleans classic hours ahead of time, and serving it is as simple as pouring a pitcher of lemonade.

When you think about peppers, comfort food usually isn't the first thing that comes to minds. But to us, it means home, and for different reasons. Crystal's mawmaw always made great stuffed peppers, and we put that recipe in our first cookbook. And when Sandy tastes a poblano pepper, she's instantly reminded of this recipe, since Sandy's oldest sister, Yvonne, makes these for her every time she comes home for a visit! Poblano peppers are smaller and spicier than their bell pepper cousins, but they're not too hot. Fairly mild overall, they pack a ton of flavor. Best of all, they've perfect for stuffing with a variety of ingredients.

This dish comes together fast for a simple weeknight meal, and it's also elegant enough to serve to any important guest.

Citizens of Casseroleville, bow in the presence of the king of all baked dishes! This recipe gets two thumbs-up not only for being gluten-free, but also for allowing you to keep your blood sugar in check. By replacing lasagna noodles with thin layers of sliced zucchini, the carbs stay low, but the flavor is still full and zesty. We suggest using a mandoline for even slices and quick prep. Just be careful—those things are sharp!

When you're making preserves, fully 50 percent of your success is in the shopping—good fruit makes good jam. Technique matters also, and a sound recipe makes a difference. But the crucial remaining factor is organization. Especially when dealing with a large quantity of perishable fruits or vegetables, you have to think through your strategy and plot out your work. If you can't get everything put up immediately, you have to take into account how the produce will ripen—and soon fade—as it waits for you. My strategy for how to use a bushel of peaches would look something like this: First day/underripe fruit: Pectin levels peak just before ripening, so I'd start with peach jelly. If you don't want to make jelly, give the peaches another day to ripen. First day/just-ripe fruit: Peaches that are fragrant and slightly yielding but still firm enough to handle are ideal for canning in syrup, as either halves or slices in syrup. Second day/fully ripe fruit: As the peaches become tender and fragrant, make jam. Third day/dead-ripe fruit: By now, the peaches will likely have a few brown spots that will need to be cut away, so I'd work up a batch of chutney, which requires long, slow cooking that breaks down the fruit anyway. Fourth day/tired fruit: Whatever peaches haven't been used by now will likely look a little sad, but even really soft, spotty ones can be trimmed for a batch of spiced peach butter. Southern peach chutney evolved from an Indian relish called chatni that British colonials brought home during the days when the sun never set on the Empire. According to The Oxford Companion to Food, chatni is made fresh before a meal by grinding spices and adding them to a paste of tamarind, garlic, and limes or coconut. Pieces of fruit or vegetable may be incorporated, but the chief flavor characteristic is sour. The British turned that into a fruit preserve, explains the Oxford Companion: British chutneys are usually spiced, sweet, fruit pickles, having something of the consistency of jam. Highest esteem is accorded to mango chutney… . Chutney later spread across the Atlantic to the West Indies and the American South, where the esteemed mango was replaced by the honorable peach.

June 24 is the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, the traditional day to harvest green walnuts for making nocino, a delicious liqueur invented at a congress of witches, according to Anna Tasca Lanza, the doyenne of Sicilian cooking. Lanza's witches were Italian, but other countries from Croatia to France to the chilly Teutonic regions equally claim greenwalnut liqueur as their own. I learned to make it at the Institute of Domestic Technology, a cooking school in Altadena, California, where I also teach. When you harvest the nuts—working barefoot, according to some folklore—they are smaller than eggs, smooth to the touch, and crisp like apples, because the shells have not yet hardened. The nutmeats, at this stage, are jelly. Like most liqueurs, nocino is easy but requires patience. You slice the nuts and cover them with strong booze, sugar, and spice, and allow the mixture to infuse for forty days, until it is nearly black. The real test of patience begins after you bottle it. Ten-year-old nocino is said to be the best, and certainly you would never drink this summer's batch before cold weather sets in this fall. Mature nocino has a complex flavor of nutmeg, allspice, coffee, and caramel. Drink it neat as a digestif, or use it to flavor desserts. A few tablespoons of nocino lightly whisked into a cup of heavy cream will cause it to seize, as if magically transformed into cooked custard. The thickened cream is called "posset," and can be used as a sauce alongside cakes or other desserts. My nocino recipe is based on those from the Institute of Domestic Technology and Lanza's Sicilian cookbook The Garden of Endangered Fruit. Its fundamentals are green walnuts, 80-proof grain spirits, and sugar. (My secret ingredient is coffee beans.) You can change the aromatics if you like, but use small quantities, because the spices can take over. Green walnuts are sometimes available at farmers' markets, or can be ordered online at www.localharvest.org.

Processing your pickles in a hot-water bath rather than a boiling-water bath will give you a firmer texture. It follows that if you want pickles with real snap, don't process them at all. These dill-pickle spears—or sandwich chips, depending on how you slice them—can be processed, if you want, for long-term shelf storage, but first try making a batch to keep in the refrigerator. They will be crisp, and the flavor of raw cucumber comes through. It's the freshest-tasting pickle in this book, and perhaps my favorite. The recipe can be scaled up.

This soup is about as easy as opening a can, and it is especially good for lunch on a hot day or poured out of a thermos at a picnic; it is so refreshing and satisfying. And if you have cucumbers in your garden, here is a way besides salad or pickles to use your bounty. This recipe can easily be doubled.

When I started working at Payard Pâtisserie in New York City, I had already been a pastry chef in Boston for a few years. I couldn't wait to see what this French guy could teach me. On my first day, I was handed a stack of recipes—all in French—and immediately realized it would be a challenging year. I spoke and read basic French, but I was pretty hazy on much of the baking vocabulary, and there were many words I'd never even seen before. Pithivier was one of them. I didn't even know how to pronounce it. (It's pee-tee-vee-YAY .) "Watch and learn," Chef Payard told me. He sandwiched a mound of rum-scented almond cream between two large squares of homemade puff pastry and then quickly scalloped the edges of the pastry to look like a sunflower. Slash-slash-slash went his paring knife over the top pastry as he etched sun rays into the surface. The whole thing went into the oven and emerged golden brown with a glorious starburst pattern on top. It put every other pastry I had ever made previously to shame. At Flour, we give our own spin to the pithivier by omitting the rum and adding a thick layer of caramelized apple butter atop the almond cream. It's a spectacular dessert.